“Whether or not the airstrip belongs to New World?” McKenna asked.
“Less that than the proximity of the hospital.”
“Copy that, Semaphore.”
It was a concern, no doubt. McKenna didn’t relish the thought of an attack run on the base that had to dodge little kids on crutches and in wheelchairs.
“Four-one miles,” Munoz broke in. “Let’s retard velocity some, Snake Eyes.”
“Semaphore out,” Brackman said. He was good about not interfering in a local commander’s decisioning.
“Yellow, go hot mike.”
“Yellow. We’re hot.”
McKenna tapped the forward thrusters several times, slowing their forward momentum.
“Got a visual, Snake Eyes. Tally the station.”
The tube of the Russian station — now the New World Order station — was on the screen. It was still too far away to make out very many details, other than the single rocket parked near it.
“I’m gonna abandon that shot for a moment, compadre.”
“Go ahead.”
Munoz used the camera to scan the area around the station. Nothing showed up.
“Go high, Tiger. They always like to come out of the sun, remember?”
Munoz aimed the camera lens upward and panned back and forth.
Nothing.
“I never realized how invisible we are, Snake Eyes.”
“Wish to hell it was only us, Tiger. Try the station again.” McKenna retarded his speed once again as Munoz trained the camera.
When Soyuz Fifty slid into view again, the magnified image was much closer.
“New umbilical in place,” Munoz said.
“Roger that, and just below, you see the nose cone?”
“Another warhead?”
“Could be, Tiger. You recording?”
“Roger.”
McKenna leaned forward, as if that would give him a closer view of the station.
Tac One sounded off.
“American spacecraft, you are trespassing the defense zone of the New World Order space station, Soyuz Fifty. You must retreat to a one-hundred-mile limit.”
“Jesus!” Munoz said, “Where did that come from?”
“I repeat, American spacecraft. You must immediately reverse your course.”
Munoz was swivelling the lens, searching space for the source of the warning.
“Maybe from the station, Tiger?”
“Maybe.”
McKenna didn’t reverse course and didn’t slow his closure rate.
“Two-nine miles, Snake Eyes.”
“Hot missile!” Conover yelled.
“Where, Con Man?” McKenna asked.
“Hell, I can’t see you.”
McKenna rolled ninety degrees, putting the Earth directly below them and the sun directly on the taped symbols of the upper wings.
“Gotcha!” Conover said. “Your one o’clock. Do-Wop painted it at Mach two-point-five velocity. We’re accelerating toward the origin of ignition.”
McKenna scanned the ether above. He couldn’t pick out a missile trail against the background of stars.
“See it, Snake Eyes?” Munoz asked.
“Negative.”
“Me neither. We probably ought to do something else. Real quick.”
“Ignition point locked in,” Abrams said. “Four away.”
As soon as he had seen the missile exhaust flare, Conover had put the nose down and slammed the throttles forward. Abrams had pinpointed on the computer the point in space where the missile had ignited.
The hot trails of four Wasp IIs snaked away from them.
“Five-four miles to target, Con Man. We’re closing fast.”
The Wasp IIs were flying independently of each other; none were slaved. They spread apart as they closed on their unseen prey. Conover’s screen seemed to have gone crazy as Abrams jumped from one missile’s camera view to another, guiding each Wasp, attempting to find Delta Green in the eye of one missile or another.
View of stars.
Another view of stars.
One more view of stars.
Another… delta-winged space craft. “No symbols, Do-Wop.”
“Got him, babe.”
The approaching MakoShark had been thirty miles from Soyuz Fifty when Maslov had spotted it on the video screen and pointed it out to Nikitin.
“Eight-one miles, Aleks.”
“Use the Phoenix.”
Nikitin launched their last Phoenix.
The image on the screen changed to the view from the lethal missile.
The MakoShark grew larger and larger on the screen as the missile closed.
The MakoShark rolled upright.
Maslov noted the white triangles on the wings. Triangle for Delta?
Closing.
Growing on the screen.
Soon.
Then, abruptly, the MakoShark flipped end-over.
Its rocket motors fired whitely.
Its velocity toward the station immediately slowed, and the MakoShark disappeared from the picture.
Nikitin tracked the Phoenix upward.
The MakoShark appeared again, larger.
And suddenly went end-over-end again.
The rocket motors ignited a second time, the MakoShark back on its original course, shooting out of the picture.
Nikitin tried to track the Phoenix down, to capture the image again, but it was gone.
“I have overshot, Aleks.”
He looked through the canopy, but couldn’t spot the MakoShark or the Phoenix.
And then a tiny white explosion indicated where the Phoenix, its fuel expended and its proximity detector not finding a target, had detonated itself.
“Four missiles incoming!” Nikitin yelped. “Eleven o’clock high!”
Maslov shoved the throttles in and felt the rocket motors surge into life.
Then he looked up.
Four white streaks.
Three would clear them.
One was dead-on.
“Five miles!” Nikitin warned.
Maslov slapped the control stick left and stomped hard on the left rudder pedal, and the Orbital Maneuvering System shifted his attitude into a head-on position. He countered the thrusters to neutralize the turn. He kept the rocket motors at full thrust.
“Three miles!”
He had provided the weapons system operator guiding the missile with a tinier target. The aggressor would be watching his screen through the missile’s eye.
“Two miles!”
Maslov tugged lightly at the controller.
Through the Wasp II’s view, the weapons operator saw the MakoShark’s upward thrusters flare.
And turned the Wasp II upward in anticipation of the move.
Maslov slammed the controller forward.
And dove beneath the Wasp II.
“Shit!” Abrams yelled on the hot mike. “Lost him.”
McKenna said, “Anyone got an eye on him?”
“Negative, jefe.”
“He’s above the station by about thirty miles, but I’ve lost him,” Abrams said.
“Take two Wasps, Tiger. We’ll take a shot at the station.”
“Two ready, Snake Eyes. Distance to target, two-two miles and closing.”
Delta Blue’s nose camera steadied on the station, the image magnified enough now that the fore and aft ends of the station were off the screen.
“The station itself, or the warheads?” Munoz asked.
Tac One, which was not scrambled, sounded off. “Soyuz Fifty, this is Captain. Launch now!”
“Secure weapons, Tiger. Yellow, veer off.”
McKenna turned hard ninety degrees to the left.
“Deltas, Semaphore. Abort, abort, abort!” The tension in Brackman’s voice was apparent to McKenna.